Limits are not weakness
by AlicevsWonderland
Summary: Jack gets fired from his job and has a break down from all the stress he's under. He feels like he's falling behind in life. Hiccup tries to help.


Author's note: So ... I'm trying a new thing, where I write a Hijack piece whenever I finish a chapter of my novel, so I don't end up not posting any fanfic for loooooooooong periods of time. I hope I can stick to it. Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy reading this. And if anyone out there is going through the same as Jack in this fic, I hope the story can bring you a little bit of comfort.

If you comment, I will love you, because comments keep me motivated.

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**Limits are not weakness**

Trying to keep up in this world is like being a child again, staring up into a massive oak tree that towers over you, wondering if you can ever climb all the way up there and reach the kite that's gotten stuck. It's a dangerous combination of "It's completely hopeless" and "Maybe if I just try hard enough, I can do it"; two thoughts that should contradict each other but somehow don't. Two thoughts that often lead to self-loathing and guilt, because you tried your hardest and failed, or you didn't try at all.

Those thoughts run through Jack's mind, as he stomps up the staircase towards his apartment. Not even the winter chill outside could calm the forest fire crackling in every corner of him. The demands and expectations in this world keep rising higher and higher, and Jack feels like he's falling further and further behind. Finally, the peeling, blue door comes into view at the end of the hallway. He's out of breath, chest heaving. His throat feels like it's full of bitter slime.

He rummages around in his pocket, trying to find his keys. He pulls them out and drops them with a clink. "Shit!" he says and he takes a breath to avoid punching the wall over and over. Because in this moment, even such a small thing crumbles the world around him, even such a small thing sinks deeper and deeper into his stomach, molding the flesh under the weight of failure.

He bends over and grabs the keys from the sticky, checkered floor, gripping them tightly in his palm. Pathetic. Fucking keys can upset him. He got fired and now he can't even take his keys out of his pocket without dropping them. Great. Yet another way he can fuck up.

He sticks his One-Punch Man key in the rusty lock and wrenches it to the side. Pushing the paper-thin door open, he is hit with the smell of the Indian takeout he ate yesterday. He had actually managed to eat something, despite that horrible nausea rummaging inside his guts because of that failed class. He remembers, when he was younger and got amazing grades. Back then he would feel terrible, if they slipped even a little bit. Now he feels terrible, because he can't even get them in the first place. And isn't that the biggest catch in this fucking world? No matter what you do, you feel like shit. You feel like you're not enough.

High grades, tons of friends and connections, stable family life, slim and healthy body, a booked calendar and, later in life, prestigious job, high salary, nice car, designer clothes, big house, kids … That's what he should achieve in the end, isn't it? That's what everyone is told they should achieve. But he'll never get there. And even if he did … would he even be happy?

He slams the door with all his force, feeling a sliver of satisfaction, when the wood crashes against the door frame. He shrugs off his blue winter coat and throws it onto the carpet, not caring that it's wet. The state of his life is pathetic, so what does it matter that there's a wet jacket lying on his floor?

The apartment is just like he left it, but it feels different. The peeling paint on the walls never caused such a strong desire to close his eyes. The smell of detergent from their neighbor downstairs never made him want to scratch his nostrils, until he feels blood down his mouth and chin.

Dirty laundry on their worn down, green couch with the faded, mismatched pillows. Used plates on the grimy kitchen table, crumbs of food all dried up. Aster has never been great at cleaning and neither has Jack, but they've worked out a schedule and now Aster hasn't followed it, that idiot! The place was supposed to be clean by now, and Jack bites his lip to keep the scream trapped in his mouth, because it's yet another thing on top of everything else, and he doesn't know how long he can keep going, when things are constantly piling up, higher and higher.

Jack stomps over to the couch, shoves Aster's dirty laundry off and throws himself on the softness. He grabs a pillow and screams into it. He screams until his throat feels like it's about to split open in a wreck of blood and nerves. He screams until he can't breathe, and his face is boiling against the fabric. The sadness and the rage are all-consuming, igniting every inch of him, eating through his organs until there won't be anything but emptiness left. That void growing inside him feels powerful enough to crack the ground open, to suck the life from every blade of grass on earth and freeze the oceans in place.

He rolls onto his back, the air cooling his heated skin. Beads of sweat rest across his hair line, threatening to slide down his skin. He heaves for air, drinking in the oxygen all around him. His chest rises and falls, quick, quick, quick, heartbeat like a terrified mouse. But he doesn't have a burrow to scurry into, or tunnels to run through, hide in, keeping him shielded from claws and teeth. Because it's everywhere. The expectations, the demands, the pressure, the comparisons to others. It's in his education, his past jobs, his family and friends, social media, art … his damn brain always finds a way for him to feel lazy, dumb, untalented, unattractive, unkind, boring, not enough.

He touches the cushion with his clammy palm. His fingers are shaking. He remembers a headline he saw on a magazine on the way home. "Are you holding yourself to impossible standards?" Like it's a problem that starts from within. Like people aren't right there to remind you that you've failed, even though you've tried so hard that you want to collapse. His eyes prickle, and he rubs them with a fist. His hand becomes moist with unshed tears.

And people will remind you.

Jack calls them enforcers in his head. They're not huge, bulky guys with tattoos and martial arts training, no. They can be anyone. They're the group of kids circling another kid on the playground, mocking him for crying, when he hurt himself, because "boys shouldn't cry." They're the wealthy businessmen and politicians calling workers "lazy" or "spoiled", when they want decent working conditions. They're the parents reprimanding their children and mocking their intelligence, when they're struggling in school. And these people are there to make you feel ashamed, so you'll change. Jack knows that, but the pressure of doing 'well', of doing what society wants him to, still gets to him.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He slings his arm down his side and rummages around in his pocket. Damn skinny jeans, sticky on his sweaty skin. The screen's brightness is harsh in his eyes, so he squints and tries to read the name. Something lurches in his chest, screechy and panicked. He tries to gulp in as much oxygen as possible, but it doesn't help. Of course, it's Hiccup, who else would it be right now? Fuck. And he can't even ignore it, because that would make Hic worried, since Jack had promised to call him after the test today. Not that he had remembered that, after everything went to shit afterwards. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Jack stares at Hic's name shining on the screen, feels the vibrations of the phone in his hand. He clicks the answer button, and he pours everything he has into not sounding like he just screamed and warm tears are threatening to splash down his cheeks.

"Hey Hic," he says, and he thinks he's gotten away with it, that actually sounded fairly-

"What's wrong?" Hiccup says, his voice crackling through the phone, and Jack can just hear that Hiccup has that worry-wrinkle between his eyebrows now. The one that settles there every time anything remotely bad happens to someone he cares about.

Shit. Why does Hiccup have to be so fucking observant about almost everything? Jack breathes out and it's shaky. There's no way Hiccup doesn't hear it. He stares at all the weird, yellow and grey discolorations on their Rorschach-like ceiling, looking for the one that looks like a shepherds' crook. There it is. "Nothing," he says and before Hiccup even speaks, he knows he's failed at being convincing.

"Don't lie to me, Jack," Hiccup says, but it's not a reprimand, it's more like a quiet plea. "What happened? Did the test go badly?"

"That's not…" Jack trails off. He could have managed, if the only thing going wrong today was the test. He could have managed, if he only had to feel like a complete failure, when it comes to his education. He rubs his forehead and slides his hand back through his hair, gripping on to some of the locks along the way, moist from sweat.

"Then… What's wrong?" Hiccup says, "Did something happen to Emma?"

"No… No. She's fine," Jack says and despite everything, he finds himself with a tiny, fragile sprout of gratefulness inside. Because things could be even worse. Something bad could have happened to his sister. Or Hiccup. Or someone else he cares about.

Hiccup sighs, and if it was anyone else, Jack would be worried that he was annoying them by not just saying what's wrong. But it's not anyone. It's Hiccup. And Hiccup has endless amounts of patience, endless depths of compassion. But that doesn't stop that nauseating, guilt from slithering into him, fitting in perfect with his organs, all slimy and bloody. Shit, he's such an idiot. Why can't he just say it? Why can't he just tell Hiccup? It's not like Hiccup would judge him. But how do you explain to someone that it feels like your life is breaking apart around you, and you're the one who's holding the sledge hammer?

"Did something happen at work?" Hiccup says, and his voice is calm, so calm, like a lullaby, like a warm, soft hand through his white locks.

But Jack can't get the words out. He can't. They've stitched themselves to the roof of his mouth, because if they come out, the whole barrier falls apart, and he'll spill everything and sob like a spoiled child, who can't handle the slightest bit of resistance. But even Hiccup asking about work… The words drip onto his shell like the icicles melting from the roof top outside; cold and painfully clear, dissolving his façade like wet paper falling apart. He can't see anything but colors and shapes, his vision blurry with tears that he refuses to let out. There's a bird's nest in his chest, blocking the air from getting through, twigs everywhere poking into his flesh.

"Jack?" Hiccup says. "Talk to me. What happened at work?" And now, that calmness has a scared edge to it, despite Hiccup's best efforts.

"I…" Jack says. I, what? I fucked up, just like I fuck up everything. I can't do anything right and I'm sitting here, feeling sorry for myself, whining and almost crying. "I… Something bad happened." And the words are so hard to get out, syrup-sticky and full of prickles.

A rustling sound through the phone. "I'm coming over," Hiccup says. "I'll be there in 10 minutes." Then the line goes dead.

Jack blinks and his gaze is drawn to the ceiling stain that looks like a devil. Well, fucking hell… He lifts his arms and slams them back into the cushions. Good job, Jack. Now Hiccup is coming over. Kind, sweet, caring Hiccup, who never fails to make him feel better, which is a giant problem in itself. Because Jack is weak, and Hiccup is oblivious and it hurts every single day, but he's managed to hold it together so far.

For a second, he considers bolting out of the apartment, running through the streets with his worn sneakers squeaking against the asphalt and the mellow glow of late afternoon sun pouring down on him. Run until fire licks his bones and the taste of blood swirls in his mouth. But that wouldn't be fair to Hiccup. And a part of him wants to see him. Always wants to see him. But another part is worried, because Hiccup causes him to let his guard down. And right now, he's not sure what he's capable of.

It's simultaneously the slowest and fastest 10 minutes of his life. He lays still on the couch; all life drained from his muscles, when Hiccup said, he was coming over. Jack can only wait for an eventual disaster, when his biggest weakness walks through the door. His breaths tremble in the silence, too loud, disturbing something precious, like a hot palm melting ice crystals. His eyes are watery. He blinks the tears away and finds more shapes in the ceiling. A bunny. A fairy. Santa. What doesn't this gross ass ceiling have? In another world, where he actually has energy and money for it, he'd like to think he would take a day out of his schedule to paint it.

When the inevitable knocking sounds, Jack is not prepared for it. He's known for at least 10 minutes that Hiccup was coming, but his irrational heart had been in denial. He forces himself off the couch, knees wobbling, like they're telling him to lie back down. Every step towards the door is like throwing a slab of meat to the demonic nausea gnawing through him. It growls and wriggles, shreds him on the inside, as it crawls further and further up, into the throat.

He folds his hand around the door knob. The metal is cool against his searing hand. The skin on his knuckles is cracking, dried up in the winter air. He pulls the door open and he could have had hours, months, to prepare, it wouldn't matter. Nothing ever makes him feel ready for Hiccup.

Because there he fucking is; tall and freckled and glorious in the soft concern radiating off his tense shoulders and expressive, green eyes. "Hi," Hiccup says, quiet and careful, like he's worried he might damage Jack with his voice. And the resistance breaks apart inside him, fragile and melting, like the snowflakes gleaming in Hiccup's dark hair. Because Hiccup could never damage him. He may have panicked about Hiccup coming here, seeing him like this, but now that he's here, Jack doesn't want him to go away.

"Uh, can I come in?" Hiccup says, fiddling with his hands, fingers half-covered in the sleeves of his jacket and that favorite hoodie of his underneath; the black one with the dragon and the words "Professional Dragon Trainer" on it. It's such a ridiculous hoodie, but Jack adores it, because it's so undeniably Hiccup, and it makes him look every bit the loveable dork that he is.

And that's when Jack realizes, he hasn't actually said anything yet. Idiot. "Yeah, uh, yeah, come in," he says and steps aside, his voice hoarse like he's just woken up after a long night of drinking. Jack clicks the door shut, hiding away any opportunity to get out of this.

Hiccup doesn't sit down. Doesn't ask for a glass of water. Doesn't even take his jacket off. When Jack turns around, Hiccup is simply standing there, in the middle of the living room, watching him with nothing but kindness in his eyes, like this place isn't a pig sty and Jack isn't a difficult mess.

"Please talk to me?" Hiccup says, and of course he says it like a question, because Hiccup may be tall, know how to fight, and be stern, when he has to be, but he has a gentleness inside him like no other, Jack has ever met.

And Jack stares into Hiccup's eyes and it feels like two years ago; the first time he realized he's in love with him. There's a mirror of that fear now, splintering inside his chest, glass fragments pushing into his soft flesh, poking through his ribs. Being exposed and defenseless. The only difference is that he won't be able to hide this time.

Jack swallows and feels the lump going all the way down his esophagus. Shit, how does he do this? How can he even explain how fucking tired and angry and sad he is? How much of a failure he feels like? He wonders if his eyes are red. If Hiccup can tell he's been crying.

Hiccup's gaze stays on him, and the warmth in his eyes is melting Jack's defensive layers. And without Hiccup doing anything, Jack can feel him getting closer and closer to that place in his core; the place where his tiniest self is building a bigger and bigger home out of the twisted branches of his fears and insecurities.

Jack has to look away, because the tears are swimming in his eyes, and he can't stand that pathetic humiliation he feels. He turns his eyes to the dull, beige carpet, where he sees that familiar red wine stain; the one Merida left, when he and Aster had their house warming party in the first week of college. The same night he first met Astrid, because Merida knew her from the basketball team and had dragged her along. And two weeks later, at a mellow movie night, Astrid introduced him to Hiccup.

"Jack… " Hiccup says and it's not fair how much it affects him, when Hiccup says his name with so much care. Jack breathes in, because there just isn't enough air in this room, in this world, right now. He exhales but it's shaky and it's so, so obvious that he's close to crying. Shit, he's so stupid. "I got fired today," he says, and his voice comes out all wobbly. He can't stand to look at Hiccup, see his expression, so he just keeps watching the carpet, like it has some interesting insights to offer and not just beige fuzz.

"Ah, shit, I'm so sorry," Hiccup says, and Jack has no doubt he means it, because even though the word "sorry" is often just thrown out without thought, Hiccup doesn't have an insincere bone in his body.

Jack nods. He blinks faster, because the tears are threatening to push through his eyes. He won't cry. He won't. He can hold it in. Even though it feels like his skin is going to crack, and his eyes are going to burn up, he will hold it in.

Hiccup steps closer to him, slow and gentle, like he's approaching an injured dog. Jack imagines that's the way he approaches the animals that are scared at the shelter.

"You look like you're about to explode. Why are you holding back?" Hiccup says and Jack is glad he's not looking at him, because he can detect the underlying hurt in Hiccup's voice, and he's sure those green eyes are watching him with that tender, careful affection. He can't stand it, he doesn't deserve it. Why can't Hiccup see that? He picks at a nail, ripping off a little white strip.

But the thing is… Hiccup is here. He came by, just to talk to him, to be there for him. Jack can't just leave him hanging like this and worry him. He shouldn't be such a bad friend to Hiccup, who's only ever given him understanding and care.

It feels like his throat is clogged. He can only get just enough air in to keep breathing; quick, shallow breaths that make his chest tight. He forces himself to look up, to meet Hiccup's eyes. "I don't want to cry," he says. There. It's out there. "I really really don't want to cry."

Hiccup tilts his head, and his eyes squint for a brief moment, like he's in pain. "Why not?"

"I just …" Jack says and waves his hands around like that will explain everything. His mouth feels rough, like the words are scraping along the sides of it.

But there's a flash of understanding in Hiccup's eyes. "It's okay. There's no shame in crying. Not ever. If you go through life always keeping your pain inside, it's going to end up poisoning you. Please, let it out. Just let go. Trust me."

Hiccup's words kick in the door that Jack is so desperately trying to bolt shut. And there's no going back, because Jack's throat is bubbling with unspoken words, with rage, with sadness, with self-loathing. The tears burst through his eyes and slithers down his cheeks. He wipes them away as quickly as he can, his palms getting moist. But what's the use? It's not like Hiccup hasn't seen it.

Hiccup is coming closer, and Jack sniffs, his nose beginning to fill with snot. The tears won't stop, and the pain is overwhelming, eating away at his muscles like a swarm of insects. He feels like he can barely keep standing.

And then there's an arm around Jack's shoulder, warm and heavy, a gentle thumb stroking over his sweater. Hiccup steps closer, so their sides are pressing together and it's something real, something tangible in this mess of Jack's scattered thoughts and his vulnerable, vulnerable heart that feels like it could be pulled apart with a single tug. The glass-bubble silence isn't uncomfortable. Jack wishes he could keep it, but he has to sniffle, has to breathe loudly, trying to get more air. Hiccup doesn't say anything, and Jack doesn't know how he always knows when to speak and when to be quiet. He closes his eyes and breathes in, his lungs aching. He focuses on Hiccup's warm thumb gliding back and forth on his shoulder. Hiccup's scent that's always a bit woodsy and something warm, he can't place. He wants to lean his head on Hiccup, wants to just lie down with him, feel his heartbeat, fall asleep in his warmth. "I can't even hold down a job," he says instead and feels bad for disturbing the beautiful silence with his ugly words.

Hiccup squeezes his shoulder. "Come on, it's not your fault, you got fired."

And it's such a Hiccup thing to say, but Jack can't process it, can't believe it. How can it not be his fault? Clearly, he hasn't done well enough, since his boss suddenly thought Jack wasn't necessary to keep around. The nausea squelches inside him, upset with the self-loathing thoughts shooting from every direction. "I'm a fucking failure, Hic. I lost my job, I can't even manage my studies. I'm so behind on everything. I probably failed the test today too. Shit, I can't … I don't know what I'm doing. I'm not even sure, if I want this education anymore. I'm not sure how I'm going to pay rent now. I'm not sure of anything."

"Hey, hey," Hiccup says, and his voice is so soft, like the delicate fall of snowflakes from a rustled branch. He lets go of Jack's shoulder and Jack feels the loss of heat like a brisk, winter breeze. "Losing your job is hard. Feeling stressed with your studies is hard. You have every right to be sad and angry. But your worth as a person has nothing to do with jobs or education or money. You hear me? You," Hiccup says and pokes Jack's heart, "are worth everything. Even if you could never work again or finish an education, you'd still be worth everything."

More tears flow into his eyes and spill out. Because Hiccup's kindness is almost painful in its honesty, and he doesn't deserve it, he hasn't done anything to deserve it. Jack sniffles and his nose is clogged, only a tiny bit of free room for air to seep through. "I'm so tired of trying and trying and then failing anyway," he says.

"You haven't failed," Hiccup says and Jack scoffs. His cheeks feel stiff and burning from the utter embarrassment of crying snot in front of Hiccup. He glances out the window. The grey winter sky fits his mood; washed out, drained of life, but beautiful in its solemn silver clouds. The snow has stopped falling, robbing the world of its light.

"I'm serious," Hiccup says. "You haven't failed. You're a human being, you can't keep going and going endlessly without burning out at some point. No one can. We all have limits."

"My limit is apparently very low," Jack says and begins to pace, walking back and forth inside the living room. Because he knows Hiccup is right. Deep down, buried below a glacier of denial and self-loathing, he knows. But that doesn't stop him feeling like his bones are made of silk paper, thin and fragile and only held together with frazzled pieces of tape. He wishes he could take Hiccup words and let them seep into his mind, let them fill his skeleton with steel, so it wouldn't matter that the outer layer was paper thin. But sometimes, your feelings don't follow your logic. Sometimes, they're disconnected, like they exist in two different parts of you that will never meet. He rubs his hands together, trying to find some sort of outlet for this nervous energy crackling in every part of him.

"Your limit isn't very low," Hiccup says. Jack stops for a moment. Hiccup is perched on the coffee table now, hands folded in his lap. His eyes are calm but there's a sliver of pain underneath, and Jack knows that he put it there. "But this world is a fucked up place," Hiccup says and scratches his head. "It's constantly drilled into our heads that life is about work, earning more money, buying more stuff. We're played out against each other, like it's every person for themselves. Like someone is supposed to lose in life, so we're all scrambling, because we don't want it to be us. It's fucking stressful."

Jack chuckles without humor. And without even noticing it at first, he's pacing again, walking different, mindless paths around furniture, around plants, around stains. "Yeah, it really fucking is. I don't know how I'm going to get by now. And I don't know what's going to happen to me in the future, if I don't figure out, what I want and how to get it." And that's the gist of it, isn't it? He's afraid of what's going to become of him. He's afraid of failing, of not having anyone to catch him and pull him back up. Because for a long time… he's been alone. He's had friends. He's had family. But there have been a lot of struggles in his heart that he had to deal with alone. Nights where he fell asleep with tears on his cheeks, because he felt unworthy, small, lacking in so many ways. Where the only company late at night was a deep, trembling longing sliding its fangs into his ribs; a longing to be more, to be better, to be like others who seemed so in control of their lives.

"I know it's much easier said than done, but try not to worry too much," Hiccup says, "You know I'll help you in any way I can. And so will the others. We'll figure it out together, okay? You're not alone in this."

Jack stops and looks at him. Really really looks at him; the damp, drooping locks, the kind green eyes, the freckles, the scar below his mouth, the stupid hoodie. Hiccup is real and he won't leave. He won't leave no matter how many flaws Jack has, no matter how badly he fucks up all the time. Jack repeats those thoughts in his head, trying to convince the anxiety to let go of him, to stop pulling on strings connected to every muscle, every bone, because he can't remember what it feels like to be truly calm anymore. "You're too good a person, Hic," he says, his voice cracking, because a sob is lurking right under the surface, and Jack is doing everything he can to keep it there.

"I know, it's a curse," Hiccup says with a brief smile, like he didn't even notice Jack's feeble voice. "Master manipulators like you exploit me all the time."

They share some weak chuckles, and it's a pleasant relief for Jack's emotionally exhausted body and mind. The anxious energy thrumming through his veins hasn't settled, and yet he wants to collapse in his bed and just sleep his problems away. He doesn't begin to pace again. He plops down onto the couch, letting the cushions mold themselves around him. There's a pleasant buzzing in his legs, like they've been overworked and are finally able to rest.

"I'm just … so tired all the time. What's the point of all of this?" Jack says, and he has to strain himself to not cry even more. He can still feel moistness on his cheeks, even though he's managed to not let new ones fall. "What's the point of working myself to the bone, wearing myself down? I still lost my job. I'm still behind on my studies. I still feel like shit about myself. Sometimes I wish I could just opt out of society. Go away and live somewhere, where the rules are different."

Hiccup gets up from the table and settles on the couch beside him. That little action is very fitting for their friendship; Jack fucks up and Hiccup goes after him and makes him feel better. "Me too," Hiccup says. "But I don't think you should feel like shit about yourself. You're doing everything you can to balance things."

"I'm clearly not doing enough," he says and clears his throat, because he's about to choke up. "I could have worked harder, I could have slept less and spent less time on fun stuff. I could have -"

"Please don't talk about yourself like that," Hiccup says and there's a whole novel to be written about the conflicting emotions flickering in those green eyes, those furrowed eyebrows, those gesturing hands that are currently held up like a peace offering. And Jack thinks he knows. Thinks he understands that Hiccup is pained by hearing him talk about himself like this, but also trying his best to be supportive.

"Look …" Hiccup says, wringing his hands. "It's natural to think "I'm the one who isn't good enough. I'm the one who has failed", but the thing is… this world is constantly pushing us around, constantly rushing us, pressuring us, and whenever our minds or bodies are worn down and can't deal with the strain anymore, we're told it's our own fault. That we just haven't worked hard enough or been smart or talented enough. Hell, we tell ourselves that it's our own fault, that's how ingrained in our minds it's become."

And Jack wants to let go, let everything out like a purifying rain. Because he knows Hiccup is not just saying this. Hiccup didn't just read it somewhere and thought it was clever. Hiccup is saying this, because he knows. He knows exactly what self-loathing and pressure and strain is about. How could he not? After all those years of bullying, when he was younger. After all the disappointment and distance, he's had to face from Stoick, his own father of all people. Hiccup knows suffering. And that thought is unbearable and relieving at the same time. Hiccup should never be in pain. He should be happy and safe, always. But Jack can't help that selfish ember inside him, glowing, warming, deep in his belly. That he's not alone. Someone understands. His best friend understands.

"But it's not our own fault, that's bullshit," Hiccup says, and Jack can tell he's trying so hard to keep any hint of anger away from his voice, but it's hard, because if there's something that pisses Hiccup off, it's intolerance and injustice. "We're human beings. All of us. And when we feel love or joy or amusement or accomplishment, it's okay to feel. Those feelings are celebrated. But when you can't keep going, when you're struggling with self-loathing or loneliness or depression or something else that isn't positive, it's suddenly not okay to feel anymore. It's only okay, when it's the "right" feelings," Hiccup says, his hands flying around as he speaks, choppy movements to underline just how much he doesn't like the state of things.

Jack clears his throat. "Yeah… I do that to myself too. When I feel sad or angry or lonely, I tell myself it's pathetic or wrong to feel that way. It's just an instinct by now," he says. He picks at a cuticle that's all frayed and disgusting.

Hiccup puts a hand on his back, and Jack can feel the warmth of his fingers through the fabric. The pressure is soft but enough to give him some comfort, like Hiccup is protecting him. "I'm sorry," Hiccup says. "I do it too sometimes. I think we all probably do. We blame ourselves for so much that we shouldn't. And not just our feelings… " Hiccup says, moving his hand up and down in gentle strokes, electrifying Jack's spine without even being aware of it. "The same goes for our bodies… We're constantly told to eat healthy, exercise, not smoke, not drink too much, not do drugs, get plenty of fresh air, keep up good hygiene and so on … It's screamed at us that our bodies are high maintenance, because they have limits. But if our bodies are worn down from too much strain, maybe from illness or an injury or years of hard work, it's suddenly not okay anymore. This world is two-faced like that; limits are only acceptable, when we never reach them."

Jack hums and remembers, when he lost his parents, and the socially acceptable time period for mourning "ran out". Suddenly, he wasn't mourning his parents anymore, he was just being "difficult" and "moody" and "unwilling to cooperate." He remembers, when his aunt's arthritis got so painful, she had to stop working at 50 years old, and her boss, her coworkers and her insurance company all tried to give her as much resistance as they could. And he remembers when Hiccup told him, he'd been suffering from depression in the past, and that he'd been all alone with it, because showing he was struggling was completely unacceptable to those around him.

Jack breathes in and lets it out, slow and less shaky than earlier. The sadness and the anger aren't gone, but Hiccup's understanding is like a sail inside his ribcage, unfolding in the wind, keeping his lungs stretched so he can breathe. He wants to let this consuming guilt and self-loathing go. But it's difficult to pull its hooks out of his flesh without shredding himself along the way. Because do these words really apply to him as well? Maybe he's that sucky exception that just sucks too much to be considered lumped in with all the other humans. "But I could-"

"Yeah, you could have slept less, but you already didn't sleep enough," Hiccup says, waving a hand around, like even suggesting it is absurd. "You could have spent less time on watching movies or playing games, but then how were you going to unwind from everything? When you've already strained yourself, that whole "I could have done more" thinking is dangerous. The only thing it does is damage your self-esteem and pull the responsibility away from where it actually belongs."

"I'm not sure where it actually belongs, Hic," he says, leaning back on the couch, resting his head on the back of it. "The only one I know how to blame is myself. I just … I feel like I'm whining, but also, like… I feel like I could sleep for years. Just get away from the world."

"You're not whining," Hiccup says. Jack can see him turning his head out of the corner of his eye. Can feel Hiccup's gaze stinging on his skin. He watches the stains on the ceiling. A sword. A flame. A saddle. So many shapes everywhere. "But that's what some people want you to think," Hiccup says. "They'll say you just need to try harder. They'll say you're lazy or spoiled. But those are the sort of people, who don't mind wearing others down, exploiting them, even breaking them, if it means more money or convenience. But it's not true. You're not lazy, you've worked so hard. You're not spoiled, you've kept going for a long time without being happy. You've done your best. That's all anyone can do, and it's all anyone can ask of you. No one can be expected to destroy themselves over a job or an education or any of the other demands that are constantly thrown in our faces."

Jack swallows and it feels like a metal ball sliding through his throat. It's true. Jack would never want anyone to destroy themselves or to feel bad, when they couldn't keep going, either mentally, physically or both. But somehow, that compassion doesn't apply to himself. He can't cut himself the same slack. And even if he could, it wouldn't change how the world is.

Jack closes his eyes. The darkness is pleasant, safe, away from expectations and impressions. Just peaceful. He sighs, a deep sigh that feels like it releases a tiny bit of the pressure in his veins. "I wish we could change things."

He hears Hiccup exhale and even that, just knowing Hiccup is alive and breathing, that he's right next to him… It's grounding, comforting. Because even when it seems like the world is nothing but concrete and glass, there are glistening drops of joy and love that settle on the bleak edges with a dew-soft touch. And even the asphalt roads, the grey cubicles, the dusty classrooms and glass buildings look a bit less gloomy and lonely because of them.

"I may be a bit of a dreamer about this but-" Hiccup says.

"You always are," Jack says, letting a little smile play on his lips. Because Hiccup is a dreamer, and it's one of the many things he loves about him. One of the many things, where he wishes he could be as good as Hiccup, as hopeful and enduring, even when things are difficult. He opens his eyes and scoots into the corner of the couch, curling one leg up under the other.

Hiccup scratches his arm, just below the wrist, where Jack knows he has a scar from stopping an angry dog that was trying to fight Toothless. "But… I think it will get better. Things will change. And I think all we can do is try our best to help those positive changes in the world," Hiccup says, glancing out the window, the pale, grey light of winter reflecting in his eyes. His skin looks even softer in the cold glow. "We need to be kind to ourselves, when we can't keep going anymore," he says, and his voice is quieter now. Jack knows it's because Hiccup struggles with that, same as him. "We need to be kind to others, when they can't keep going. And we have to stop blaming ourselves and blaming others for every little thing and take a closer look at the system instead. Because this never-ending search for more and more money, more and more stuff, more and more power, no matter what the consequences for people's lives are… It's bullshit."

Jack chuckles and enjoys that fuzzy warmth nestling deep within him, because he loves this man, loves his compassion and fairness. And he knows Hiccup will always be by his side. It pushes a bit of the anxious bubbling aside, so he can breathe easier for a moment. "So eloquent," he says and sticks his tongue out. It feels good, that little touch of humor in between all this stress and anxiety.

"I know," Hiccup says, his mouth splitting into a grin, showing the little gap between his front teeth. Beautiful.

Jack shakes his head, purses his lips and blows air out. "You're right though. Can't take that away from you," he says. "Honestly? I feel like I'm in a competition with everyone else, and I'm just falling further and further behind."

"Yeah. I know what you mean."

"Everyone keeps telling me, how I have to be ahead of everyone else all the time," Jack says, and he has to take a calming breath and stare at his hands instead of Hiccup. Because admitting this is like standing in a vast forest, looking up at the majestic tree trunks reaching into the sky and the endless, vibrant leaves covering the clouds from view. It's a swirl of comfort and insecurity; wobbling between feeling safe and feeling small. "I have to battle my fellow students to get the best working experiences and highest grades, and when we graduate, we have to fight each other for the 'good' jobs. Back at the coffee shop, I had to compete with my coworkers to have the best performance, so I'd have a chance for a promotion. Whenever I see my grandparents, they talk about my cousins like they're way ahead of me in life." He slaps his palm down hard on the green couch cushion. "Why do we have to be pushed to compete with each other all the time? It's like a piece of meat being thrown to a pack of starving raccoons. We're all just trying our best to get through life."

Hiccup hums. Jack peeks at him from under his white fringe that's almost falling into his eyes. Hiccup is doing his best to look unaffected, but his fingers are twitching in his lap. "I understand," Hiccup says, his fingers gliding over the knuckles on his other hand. "Honestly, I think there's too much focus on work and money in this world. It seems like what matters the most is being pushed away. We're constantly told that working as hard and fast as we can is vital to have a good life. That having a particular education, a fancy title, lots of stuff and a high salary is the meaning of life. But who's asking about our happiness? If we're not happy, then what's the point of all this?"

Jack nods. His neck feels stiff, muscles clenching. No wonder, with all the fucking pressure he's been under in the last few years. He looks up at Hiccup, properly this time, staring him straight in the eye. And then he thinks about Hiccup's question and something drops inside him, chilly and heavy like the snow drifts gliding off roof tops outside. Because he has no answer, hasn't had one in a long time. He swallows. "I'm not sure what the point is anymore."

Hiccup smiles at him, and it's a smile that matches the shriveled orchid in the window sill, a smile Jack never wants to see on him. "I don't blame you," Hiccup says. "It's hard to find any meaning, when it's constantly buried by endless cries about work and money. But we're human beings, we're not just cogs in the machine."

Jack clutches the bottom of his shirt. There's a coffee stain on the blue fabric. From the one order of coffee he got to make, before his boss came out and fired him, threw him away like he hadn't been an employee there for two years. "I feel like a cog, that's for sure."

Jack feels a pat on his back, and it tingles even after Hiccup has removed his hand. "I know," Hiccup says. "I feel like that too. Pretty often, actually."

Jack keeps looking at him, and when Hiccup meets his eyes, he knows they understand each other. He can see the same sort of longing for something unknown, for something they're not even sure exists. "What do you do about it?" Jack says, partly because he wants to know that Hiccup does something to ease the pain, and partly because he wants to ease his own pain too.

Hiccup breathes in deep and Jack follows the slow rise of his chest. It's like he's reflecting on the question. Hiccup exhales and the sound is clear in the silence. "I try to focus on the good things in my life. I often take a step back from everything and take comfort in the little details, like how pretty the rain looks sliding down my window, or how I get a little rush of excitement, when I draw a new invention, or how warm Toothless' sleeping body feels next to me on the couch. Anything that can bring a smile to my face. It reminds me that I'm not just a cog. I'm a person, I exist outside of work, outside of studies, outside of a pay check. And even if I didn't work, didn't study, didn't earn money or degrees, everything else about me would still be here. I would still have value."

The words do something to Jack; remind him of a feeling he hasn't experienced in a long time. The last time he felt it was on a mountain top, gazing over the endless white mountains all around him. The fresh, chilly air purified his skin, his lungs, his mind. The thick, crisp silence held him in a soft embrace. Peace.

He's not quite there in this moment, but he can feel it around the edges of his mind, just out of his grasp but closer than it's been in years. Because it's a comforting thought… That his identity, his self, isn't dependent on jobs or education or money. That he has value, no matter what happens, no matter where he ends up. He feels a smile stretch his lips, and he savors the way the brief joy buzzes in his whole body. "Damn Hic, that philosophy class really paid off, huh?"

Hiccup scoffs and leans back into the squishy couch, the faded green cushion flattening under his weight. "What are you talking about? I was already a modern-day philosopher, before I took that class."

"No, no, I swear," Jack says, nodding with exaggerated appreciation, because he loves to tease Hiccup and he'd like this moment to last a little longer. "You've become a lot wiser on your old days."

Hiccup pushes his shoulder and the familiarity is safe and wonderful. "I'm only a year older than you, dit fjols."

Jack waves him away, like he's an annoying wasp. "Don't speak that potato-language to me," Jack says, because he knows exactly how to walk that thin line between having fun with Hiccup and pissing him off.

"Hey! Respect my native tongue," Hiccup says and points at him, a fake scowl on his face. He looks adorable more than anything else.

"I won't," Jack says, "It has sounds that are impossible to say."

Hiccup stares at him with a blank expression. "Jack … You've heard me say them."

"Impossible," Jack says again and shakes his head to himself, like he hasn't even heard Hiccup.

Hiccup sighs and it's the same sort of sigh he made a few weeks ago, when Jack tried to convince him it was Toothless who had broken Hiccup's mirror. Okay, so maybe it was Jack and maybe he did it while dancing to a Disney soundtrack, but he needed to see, if he could get away with it. He couldn't.

"Well, maybe I should just get on a plane and fuck back home to Denmark," Hiccup says and shrugs.

Jack waves at him. "Tell the other potato-people I said hello."

Hiccup laughs, and no matter how many times he hears it, Jack knows he'll never like someone's laugh more than Hiccup's. And there's that sharp tug of pain that pulls strips of flesh straight off his bloody heart. The tug that always follows thoughts like this. Because he can't have him. He can never have him. In a blink, the tears are back with that infuriating heat, and he can't see any shapes clearly, only colors. He can usually hold it back, can get himself under control before it becomes too bad. But here with Hiccup, having shared so much with him, it's like he's lost the reigns over his emotions. And that thought is frightening. He wipes his cheeks with a sleeve and refuses to look at Hiccup.

But then there's a warm weight on his shoulder that Jack would recognize anywhere. And Hiccup scoots closer, so they're pressed against each other, leaning on each other, maybe in more ways than just one. He wants Hiccup closer and he wants him further away. He wants to confess to Hiccup, and he wants to keep his secret hidden behind his lips forever. It's a terrible and beautiful imbalance inside him, like mud swirling with spring water. Jack leans his head on Hiccup's shoulder. Because he's exhausted and as time passes, it gets harder and harder to fight it. He closes his eyes, letting the tears push through his eyelashes. He breathes in Hiccup's scent and lets it calm him.

"Just remember," Hiccup says, so soft it's almost a whisper. "Your worth has nothing to do with work or studying or money and everything to do with simply trying your best to be a good person in a world that's difficult to exist in."

A warm touch on his face. Hiccup's thumb glides over his skin, wiping away his tears, and it's hesitant and careful, like Jack is a layer of sparkling ice on a pond, ready to break apart and melt under the sun.

"You're enough," Hiccup says, and Jack pushes his face into Hiccup's shoulder, squashing his wet cheeks against the black hoodie. He fills his lungs with air, and it feels like they're trembling. He's enough. Hiccup says he's enough. Jack needs to try to believe that. And if he really is enough, if he is worthy… maybe one day, he will be brave enough to be honest with Hiccup.

He feels Hiccup's fingers in his hair, moving over his skin with a loving touch that tingles down his spine. "No matter what happens, you're enough. You're always enough."

The water in Jack's eyes keeps bleeding into Hiccup's hoodie. He digs his fingers into Hiccup's back, holding on. He wants so much more; from himself, from Hiccup, from life. But he knows he can't deal with that now. In this moment, all he needs is that sweet touch of relief among the bruising pain; to know he's enough. Tomorrow, he'll go from there; try to build on that, try to knock it into his brain that he has value and that he deserves happiness. He wants to stop living under a constant crushing weight of self-loathing and stress. He wants things to change, and here in Hiccup's arms, he thinks for the first time in years that it might not be impossible.


End file.
